Just Another Night
by Morbius10
Summary: "You moved in next-door one night, your red hair tied in a pony-tail and a guitar in one hand. There was something picturesque about it all," I said looking at the stars. For years, I struggled through life, to protect my city, to help people. But you were always there, perhaps not all the time, but enough that I stopped questioning my sanity. (1st person narration - Peter)
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER-1**

I remember the day you moved in. It was early in my Junior year, and the Miller's had just left the blue gentrified house with the backyard that I always envied. It was just so much more spacious than ours, but everything's more spacious than our tiny home with the tunnel-like corridors where you can't walk straight before hitting something on the path.

They had been our next-door neighbors for as long as I could remember. But in the middle of July 2012, I remember the packers hauling away their abnormally large wardrobe along with the dinner table and the crystal pieces that Mrs. Miller was so fond of in the back of a truck that filled both our driveways. The Miller's themselves drove away a fortnight later after having bid adieu to me and Aunt May.

For the next two weeks, the door of the blue house remained locked and a 'For Sale' sign stared at me every day as I walked back from school. Days passed and no one moved in, until one fine evening, as I went out the front door to drop off the week's garbage, I saw you for the very first time.

I won't lie, the red hair caught my attention first. And maybe perhaps the tank top too, though that was mostly because it accentuated your figure quite well. You didn't notice me, at least not right away. I stood on the driveway staring unabashedly at you, the garbage bag in my hand forgotten. For years to come, that's how I will remember you – standing alone on the porch of the blue house. You pulled out a guitar from the back of the red Volvo parked on your new lawn and I could imagine you sitting under a tree somewhere and playing it while our heads swayed to the tune.

With it slung across your shoulder you took a step towards the front door only to realize that you weren't alone and I had been staring at you for a _very_ long time. You pinched your eyebrows into a worrisome look that told me that you had probably thought of me as a dangerous stalker, at which point I made a show of clearing my throat and dropped the garbage in the bin.

But my eyes were on you all the way back as you entered the house and slammed the door shut and I stood there, with only the moon for company.

In the month of February, when spring was setting in, Midtown High was cueing up for its Annual Farewell Ceremony for the graduating batch of 2013. This was the first time we would have a proper farewell party of any kind and though officially the school advertised it as a Graduation Ceremony and we'd had plenty of those before, us Juniors weren't having it that way and we were the ones handling the event.

Well us _and_ the sophomores. This was supposed to be a really big deal and more than half our class was involved in the proceedings, right from the get-go. There were cards delivered to parents and long-form invitations were printed separately and handed to special guests. I know because Aunt May got one as well. I remember that I had just slipped in through the bedroom window on a lazy Saturday afternoon with my full costume on when she walked in with a pale-green envelope with her name printed on the top. Don't people ever understand the expression "Knock before you enter"? Good thing she didn't check the ceiling before she left, might have gotten the scare of her life. I examined it later, the envelope smelt vaguely of bubble-gum and inside wasn't much different. To be truthful, that's all I remember about it. But whatever it was, it seemed like a lot of trouble for a public high school program. Everyone knew what to expect and what not to, maybe it was the rumors that passed around the school halls faster than it took a bullet to hit its victim. Such as the piece of gossip I overheard from Sally Monroe, a girl from photography class, who passed by me in the locker room one day, whispering to Liz Allan, "I hear Flash and his buddies are gonna smuggle booze in. This thing is gonna be just like the proms!".

The idea for the ceremony itself had been proposed by our Advanced English teacher, Mr. Kramer, who himself would be leaving the school faculty come June. Rumors suggested that he wanted this event to be a shared experience both for the students, and him personally. He was really old though and sometimes not very right in the head. There were days he would show up in his ancient blue-striped boxers that might have survived World War Two itself, the giggles and looks of surprise didn't seem to faze him. I personally thought that he just couldn't see very well. And the guy had health issues as well, minor ones mind you. He was always blowing his nose and sniveling in class, and I mean like every-freakin'-day of every-freakin'-month. Must have had chronic pneumonia for all I cared, and honestly, I didn't. I was much too tired those days, so I slept through most of his periods anyway, even though he was great with his lessons. "Shame he has to leave though," Harry said to me after one of his classes, "The guy's a head-case and all, but his classes are kinda fun. Don't ya think?". Most of us would miss him, but not terribly so; in a few days, everyone would have moved on.

But you already know all this, you were there with me. After all, it was your first year at Midtown. However, the thing you didn't know and I never told anyone except Harry was that I wasn't very interested in this little upcoming farewell party and I had absolutely no intention of attending it. The reason being there were quite a few things going on at the time, I mean besides school. There was, of course, the occasional homework, which I failed to complete on most good days and let's not talk about the bad ones, coupled with my weekend shifts at the Downtown Café. May was already doing the best she could with her nightly shift as a nurse, but sometimes it just wasn't enough and well, I didn't want to stress her out or anything, so I decided that maybe it was time I tried to earn whatever few bucks I could, at least to hold my end of the allowance. Plus it helped out with the expenses on the Spider-man stuff. Keeping up with that side really cost a lot. So the job was important to keep the wallet from emptying. Plus there was also this piece of news being circulated at the time, mostly on the TV channels, about a recently escaped convict whose name escapes my memory at the moment. A serial arsonist, that's what his resume said, and he'd burnt down at least a dozen buildings or so, prior to his arrest. A real piece of work.

So as you can see, I was quite tied up elsewhere and with this party coming up and spirits rising higher and higher, it seemed like I would be stretched out even more. It seemed best to just avoid it. Harry, however, knew that I was planning on bailing and pressured me constantly, "It'll be fun, c'mon dude. When's the last time you did anything fun? I know you don't enjoy socializing, but just this once do me a favor alright? I don't wanna go to this thing alone, can you imagine how awkward I'd look? And the girls? Think about the girls man! It's gonna be amazing. So c'mon Pete, say yes. Just promise me you'll show up at this party. Besides, have you looked at yourself recently? You-"

I didn't agree to it, at least not right away. He badgered me for days and days, mostly the occasional "So, the party? You coming?" at the back of the class along with a few noteworthy monologues in recess, until finally on one fine Monday morning, I grunted my assent and by the end of the day I had promised Harry that I'd make myself present for the farewell party of 2013. The school spirit was really climbing and gossips reached our ears that a lot of the Seniors had been asking their old flames out and they planned to show up as couples to the ceremony. I guess the saying went something like "Live a little before we die"? But among the teachers, Old Kramer was the jolliest of the lot, by far, and even though it was still over a month away, the guy bustled around the school corridors like the ceremony was tomorrow. He even got cranky if we mentioned that it wasn't until the end of March. "Just get on with your work eh!" he told a nosy Charlie Maguire with thick-rimmed glasses for saying that we had end-term exams to prepare for as well. I'd almost forgotten about exams, they were like the last thing on my mind those days.

In the next few days, banners were put up, slogans were prepared, stands were erected, speeches were written and photographs were taken. At recess on Wednesday, Harry and I sat at the back of the canteen with half-eaten sandwiches lying on our trays while a blonde girl with glasses was busy putting up green balloons and a new stretch of banners across the opposite wall. "Who is she?" Harry asked. I underwent the pretense of taking a glance before answering, "Gwendolyn Stacy, shortened to Gwen". There was movement at the table a few feet away from us. "How'd you know? You have classes together?" Harry asked with genuine interest. I smirked, "Yeah, we have the same cores. She's really good too, knows the stuff in the books inside out. A bit on the quiet side though."

There was a moment, where it felt like a group of mountain-sized trolls surrounded our tiny table until I realized that a group of trolls had _indeed _surrounded us. "You sitting with this dweeb again Harry? You know we have an open table for the likes of you man." Flash said towering over me. Really, I sometimes thought Flash's default expression resembled the scowling face of an ogre better than any artistic depiction I'd ever seen. I had even told him that once, also adding that maybe he would have a career one day as a life-sized model for artists who had an interest in drawing beastly green men. He didn't take it so well, which surprised me. I sincerely thought it was good practical advice. Well anyways, his little gang chased me for an entire week after that. Must have been frustrating as hell when they realized that the guy they were trying to catch had more than a few get-away tricks up his sleeve. And down it too. But right then inside the canteen, I kept my head down and eyes fixed on the table, no need for a scene here with the teachers patrolling the corridors. Harry gave me a side-wink before standing up, "Yeah, you're right man. Parker's a bitch anyways. I'll take you up on that offer, let's go". But he hadn't moved an inch before being pushed against the wall by Flash who grabbed the collar of his shirt. "Now, don't try to play smart with me. I know where your loyalties lie you, two-faced rich snob".

Our predicament didn't look so good and though I could easily have swatted Flash away, it certainly wouldn't have solved anything. There were at least a hundred students occupying the mess and Mrs. Thompkins, the Chem lab assistant, was standing by the entrance but she was too much of a sweet-heart for Flash to give a damn. So, just as I thought of pulling off an outrageous stunt, Harry gave me a stare that looked like he might have been trying to convey something meaningful, but all I got from it was alarm. With a fragile smile, he prised away Flash's hands from his collar and said, "Imagine for a moment how this looks Flash. You have me in a corner here, quite literally. But Peter here… Well, he's not deaf. Can you imagine what would happen, if he decided that maybe, you know, my _dad_ needed to know how his son was being threatened, by some hot-shot who thought he could be a big ol' bully in the middle of recess? I doubt dear old dad would like that at all". I knew how much Harry hated using the Dad card, he absolutely loathed it. "Using his name, makes me feel like I just put a sock in my mouth" he would tell me on occasions when people would ask if his father was really the famous industrialist they saw on TV adverts and on the business section of newspapers, "People get this look on their face, almost like a tiger's pinned them down with its canines out". Well, that was exactly how Flash looked at that moment. Like every other bully, he was scared of the bigger bully in the park and Harry's dad was the biggest of them all.

A few seconds, that's all it took for Flash to retrace his steps. However, he had merely backed an inch when a familiar buzz rang inside my ear, but it was a bit too late before I noticed him turn around and plant a punch on Harry's left jaw which left him sprawling on the floor. "You prick!", he muttered at Harry's fallen figure. At that point, my vision blurred and I saw red. The next thing I remembered was Flash's figure flying so far that he landed right next to Gwendolyn, who was painting letters on a piece of chart-paper with thick green paint. What was up with all the green? Was it some kind of theme? From the corner of my eye, I noticed Mrs. Thompkins staring at this scene with a round mouth which eventually barked an order at me that I couldn't hear with all the ringing in my ears.

"Detention! Two weeks!" the principal said to me in her office that afternoon while Flash howled in pain beside me. "With due respect Ma'am" I began, "Flash was the one who started it all-….".

"And I already know that courtesy of Mr. Osborn. Mr. Thompson here shall be joining you in detention as well."

"For how long?"

"That doesn't concern you."

"_For how long_?"_, _I asked. The principal's face tightened and turned red with an ugly nerve that ran straight up her forehead into her hairline. She gave me this look that said it all - "I can't believe your gall!" but I really didn't care.

"A week," she said.

"A week?! He should be doing the same as me!"

"You _threw_ him across the room! Now I don't know how… or even why! But goodness gracious man! You should be grateful, yeah _grateful_, that Flash here didn't break anything. And he's the team quarterback too! Mr. Morris would have nailed your head on a football post if his star player was injured for the rest of the season."

"He deserved it! He sucker punched Harry! Everyone saw it!"

"That's it, a month, detention for a month!"

"What!? What on earth for?"

"For not seeing the harm you've caused! There are repercussions to rash actions! Now I expect compliance or you're gonna sit out in the lobby while your Aunt and I have a nice long conversation."

My heart was hammering against my rib-cage so hard that I half expected it to burst out in a mess of blood and bones. I wasn't the least bit afraid, but I was definitely angry. I bit my lip, as I tried to look at the situation rationally. One wrong move and Aunt May would steamroll her way to school in Uncle Ben's run-down tinfoil Jeep, and there would be an extraordinarily high chance of her strangling me to death with the strap of her fake leather handbag while the Principal watched in gleeful horror. The rage disappeared down a tiny hole as that particular scene played out vividly in the space between my ears. "You haven't told her yet?" I asked, with a bit more hope than I meant to.

"No. This kind of ugly business jeopardizes the school image. And right during the farewell preparations too. Really Peter? I expected better from you" she said with a ferocious glare.

"Hmph" I scowled at Flash who was still groaning in pain. It was obvious to me he was faking it.

"So, you're going to do your detention. Daily, for a month. I expect no excuses or you'll be banned from attending the party, understand!" she said. "Now get out of here!"

There was a place I often visited those days – the graveyard on Cooper Avenue. It was a somber and gloomy place to be and people occasionally had the misfortune to visit it. But not me; I often came of my own volition. That February of 2013, it had been two years since Uncle Ben's casket had been lowered into the depths of the earth right beside the other two gravestones that marked where mom and dad had been laid. I remembered the funeral, the strange unfamiliar faces that came and visited us every few hours, all of whom seemed to be filled with grief for our loss. For a week, May laid by the foot of her bed, tears streaming down her face and every time she went down to the kitchen to heat up our dinner, she would burst into tears and her hands would shake over the counter and nothing would steady them. I watched all this happen, and more, and yet I didn't grieve, not the same way she did anyway. No, I was out there in the rain, flying through the air trying to breathe in the rotten air of the city and fill my lungs with it. After it happened, I would visit his grave once a week, I'd even bring flowers. When I was younger, Uncle Ben would drive me up there himself, with a bouquet of tulips and celandine and handfuls of violets that smelled so nice inside the car that it seemed a shame to leave them at the resting spot of people who had no way of appreciating anything at all. I was ten when I asked him why he would take me there so often. Even then, a cemetery seemed like a horrible place to take a ten-year-old every weekend, but he simply said: "So that you never forget who they are".

Anyway, the reason I'm telling you all this is because a week after I got handed the detention, I was standing in the graveyard on a cloudy night staring at the stones and wondering why I'd even decided to come. The last time I'd visited was at least two months ago, and there wasn't really anything to say that hadn't already been said the thousand times I'd already been there. And anyway, those days, I just came to listen, but that day, in particular, there was just silence. My phone told me it was half-past eleven. In ten minutes May would be back from her shift to find that I wasn't home. She'd call me immediately and when I wouldn't pick up the first three calls, she'd dial 911 and report that the last living member of her house was missing.

I thought it all out while gazing at the broken marble that covered the spot my mother was buried under. Even in the darkness, I knew my way out, stumbling only over a few semi-large rocks that were on the path. The moon lit the ground for a while as the clouds overhead parted and in that brief moment, I caught sight of another figure a few feet ahead and judging from the shape, I guessed it was a girl, petite and her hair might have been blonde or silver, it was hard to glean in the darkness. I followed the path out which brought me closer to her, but she hadn't caught a glance of me yet. I eventually saw her face.

"Gwen?" I asked in surprise. She jumped and turned around and the moon decided that it was time for it to go back under its cover. "Gwen?" I called in the dark again, but the footsteps told me she was running away. I stood in silence for a few minutes and then curiously, I walked over to the grave she was looking at, switching my phone on for visibility. The stone slab read:

_Here lies Helen Stacy_

_Mother and Wife_

I looked for an epigraph but for some reason there was none. Sure that I had made some mistake, I ran my phone all around the slab but ultimately had no luck whatsoever. What I did find, however, and I almost stepped on it while doing so too, was a pair of glasses. Gwen must have dropped it. I picked it up and blew the soil away from the rims. I kept it on my bedside table as I went to sleep that night, the bedroom window visible through the lenses and the faraway buildings of Manhattan were slightly askew through its vision. In the distance, I saw smoke rising in a column from a place hidden from my view and in that half-asleep state, I had this strange feeling that the police scanner hidden under the clumps of paper on my study-desk was issuing something worthy of my attention but for once, I had already slipped off into the land of dreams.

The arsonist had been busy. Three buildings burnt to a crisp in a span of two weeks, two of which had been apartment complexes on the East-side of Manhattan, a pattern which the cops picked up on and so did I, which eventually resulted in me swinging over there in between an important Bio test on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. I was already behind on my grades and this new streak of urban fire breakouts wasn't doing me any favors. Once I got there, I realized I was pretty late to the party and the yellow tapes had already been set up in a radius of about fifty meters. It looked like the main fire had spread out and the surrounding trees and pavement had been scorched by the heat. The injured were hauled into ambulances and driven off while the officers questioned witnesses. It certainly looked like there was nothing left for me to do. Nothing except for this young boy with a cap over his forehead, who just happened to look up and spot me while his dog barked viciously at me. The rest of the crowd followed his gaze and started whispering amongst themselves, at which point I leaped off the wall and disappeared, all the while thinking how I'd missed a test for this.

The third and latest arson was another grave situation but to be truthful it was more, dare I say _amusing_ than the ones before. A fire-station down by Gramercy Park had been set alight at midnight just two days before March began. Thankfully, no personnel had been injured which was expected considering the equipment they shouldered, but their pride certainly had been. Interviews broke out on social media of hapless fire-men who turned red at the mention of how their own base of operation had befallen to the same disaster they had been trained to protect. And the disdain was shared by May as well, who scoffed into her coffee cup while watching the evening news and said, "With that Spider-man character running around, no wonder all of the other institutions are becoming a joke too. You be careful on the streets Peter, I heard some of my co-workers talking about how they'd all spotted Spider-man swinging by our neighborhood. I don't want you within a mile of that freak". I never asked May what she had against Spider-man but something told me I was better off not knowing.

Those two weeks were absolutely horrible. Not only was I failing to stop the continuous streak of arson attacks, which led to me being more irritated than usual but there were also detentions to attend, which took away another two hours off of my already messy schedule. I was getting to work even later than usual and I'd been no role model to begin with. But might I also mention, that two hours of detention with Flash of all people, was no merry ride. He kept chucking paper-balls at my direction the moment the supervising teacher dozed off in his chair. I glared at him with my hands grasping the edges of the wooden table with such intensity that I felt it cracking under my palms. "oOo, scary!" he intoned with raised hands. He'd been such a moronic shit-head for so many years by then, that it was plain annoying that he'd not changed even a bit. I'd seen better character development in the neighborhood cat, and I kid you not when I tell you she used to vomit over my sneakers every morning for three years straight, and now, she does it on my bathroom floor. I wasn't easily surprised but Flash Thompson certainly kept pushing the bars on the lower extremes. Thankfully he stopped coming after a week, at which point he gleefully said, "Puny Parker!" which told me everything I needed to know about my situation.

And if Flash wasn't enough of a problem, there was also work to be handled. Right after detention ended every day I would rush out the revolving doors of the school and make a beeline for the Downtown Café, which happened to be located on the North-East section of Queens close to the Queensboro Bridge. Usually, I took the aerial route - webs flying out of my wrist as I zipped at breakneck speeds over the water tanks and past the billboards that cluttered my vision, eventually landing in the secluded alleyway where I changed into my work clothes and went in through the back door of the shop. But those days, I would arrive in a fit of sweat and exhaustion, having hurried from school to work in a span of mere minutes. My manager would poke his head out of the back-room and shout my name, at which point I'd explain in breathless gasps, "Suh-Sorry, I ha-had…. extra work at sch-….-ool". But the effort was in vain as he would walk up to me with a menacing scowl and say, "Where have you been! You know what, I don't really care. These late arrivals will not be tolerated if you keep pushing boundaries every-day, Peter. I expected you an hour ago!"

"I'm suh-sorry" I'd say with my hands on my knees, "I'll work an extra hour if that's okay? I was busy elsewhere."

"Well, you were needed here!"

"I know. I'm sorry, I really am."

"I've been working my ass off for an hour straight on what should be _your_ job!"

"I'll uh… I'll make it up to you I promise. I'll work harder" I huffed.

"Parker, you… you're a good kid. I see that in your-.." he motioned with his hand at my body trying to imply something, "everything. You're a decent boy, but if you think I won't replace you because of your lackadaisical nature, you're wrong!"

"You'll fire me? But-…"

"Understood?" he interrupted. "Now, counter-duty! Get on it!"

I worked three shifts a week, those being on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. The shifts lasted four hours normally and by the time I would be done, bone-crushing tiredness would overcome me. Who knew handling expresso's and cappuccino's for three hours straight could be so draining? I mean, there had been occasions on which I got them mixed up, but fortunately, the customers didn't make a big deal out of it, well, most of the time.

There was just so much on my mind during March that I was beginning to feel a bit like a scrambled egg being slowly cooked on low steam. All I wanted more than anything by the time the sun disappeared, was to lie my head down on something solid and just doze off for days. I saw a documentary on squirrels once and guess what? They sleep for months! Hibernation they call it. Well, I was more than willing to turn into a squirrel right then. But even that didn't seem like a luxury I could afford.

Meanwhile, something else was bothering me as well, Gwen's glasses. I had tried, on many an occasion to talk to her or just hand it over to her in an empty classroom, but she seemed to be avoiding me. Had she recognized me in the cemetery the other night? Well maybe so, but she was definitely skirting her way around me. I did see her in class however and though I had half-expected her to start wearing a new pair of spectacles, it turned out she hadn't. She looked strange without them, I almost didn't recognize her at first glance. To be honest, I thought she looked nice really, at least now I could tell that her eyes were sparkling blue, but it was a shame she hid so well. In many ways, she reminded me of myself. How she'd shirk her way around people and at the same time be nowhere at all. Almost like she's always there but no one looks at her more than once. Like a ghost hiding in plain sight.

On 4th March, Harry came by our house in his black limousine. I saw it parked against the curb while returning from the local grocery store one evening. I don't know what it was with him but for some strange reason, he always preferred our tiny little suburban house compared to the massive penthouse he and his dad shared up in Manhattan. To be honest, I had always been jealous about it. I often nabbed at opportunities for him to take me up to his place where I would marvel at his massive TV screen with the liquid display and an equally impressive gaming console to go with it. I loved the retro-style theme his place rocked, made it feel like something out of Blade Runner along with the huge glass windows that reached up to the ceiling from which you could look down at the city and feel all-powerful. But he had an equivalent love for my claustrophobic and tiny bedroom with the faded posters of Einstein and Turing stuck permanently over my bed and the racks of old DVD which were shelved along the opposite wall. There was even a rotating star projector beside my bed which when you switched on, engulfed the ceiling with the low-hanging image of the Milky-Way galaxy rotating spread along the walls.

Okay yeah, I'll admit it, my room wasn't half bad. But sometimes it just felt like it would be nice for May and me to live in a bigger house.

Just it would be nice was all.

Anyway, the night Harry visited was also when the arsonist struck again. I had to make a million and one excuses to weasel my way out of dinner and rush to the bedroom to gather my suit. Harry followed behind, asking what was wrong. I merely said "There's something I need to do" before slamming the door on his face. I don't think he appreciated it much but such was the circumstance. The police scanner on my desk issued tons of new messages all of which I heard before sliding the bedroom window open and jumping out with the suit in my backpack. I landed on the tree that ran against my window. However, as I readied myself for a leap, somewhere below I heard a squeal and a buzz in my ears that made me swerve sideways as a rock flew past where my face had been a moment before. But in doing so, it left me vulnerable to the cracking of the branch at the joint. Both the branch and I tumbled down while I hit the ground face-first which resulted in a whole bunch of grass and dirt entering my mouth.

I sat up and started spitting it out feeling like a goat with a bad case of indigestion, when a voice of the girlish baritone said a few feet away, "Don't move!".

As I gazed at the direction of the voice, the streetlights doing their job, I saw you standing against the fence that separated our houses, dressed in your pajamas, your red hair tied in a ponytail and the guitar held over your head like you were about to throw it at my direction. You were positively menacing under the shadow of the tree.

"Are you going to hit me with that?" I asked.

Now that I faced you, you finally saw who it was, "Fuckin' hell! Peter?"

"You didn't answer my question. Where you really going to throw that thing at me?"

"I didn't know it was you." You lowered the guitar and slung it across your shoulder. "I thought maybe a burglar or something."

"So, you were going to hit a supposed _burglar_, with a guitar?" I asked. "Where exactly uh… were you going to hit me?"

You stood by the fence with a look of mottled embarrassment, "Well it was the only thing I had on me. And you scared me half to death creeping about like that!"

"Shouldn't you be… running the opposite direction if you spot a burglar of some kind?" I asked, as I brushed my shirt and stood up.

"I don't run!" you said simply, with your eyebrows etched into a firm line and I believed you.

I looked around the entire neighborhood which was bathed in semi-moonlight. It was a dark night. "What're you doing out here anyway?" I asked, "At this time?". We were the only ones out on the streets at that ungodly hour.

"You can't hear it?"

"Hear what? The wind?". It _was_ a windy night and the leaves of the trees were rustling above our head and I saw a few dead ones fall by our feet. I traced the motion of one as it made its way down and fell gently on your shoulder. "Or is it the leaves?"

You brushed it off your shoulder and it tumbled haphazardly to the ground. "Neither."

"You _really_ can't hear them?" you asked after a while, to which I shook my head. "Then listen harder," you said and I did. At first it was just the wind howling, it was really loud but eventually, a cacophony of equally loud noises reached my ears, the sound of two adults bickering in a dirty quarrel. "They've been fighting for hours now. My dad did something, I think."

"Oh"

"Yeah." You leaned against the wall of your house and slowly slid down into a sitting position. "It's nothing new though. They're always fighting."

I gulped and looked at your eyes, which I realized were greener than I remembered them to be. It was difficult to hold your gaze, so I momentarily shifted my glance to the side and said thoughtfully, "This is probably private, but uh… I hear them sometimes…. From my room, you know."

"They act like children when they get like this. Usually, it's something minor. Like the food just wasn't good enough and he goes angry, or sometimes, mom throws away the beer bottles he keeps stacked inside the fridge and he goes proper ballistic."

"Jeez…" I said rubbing the back of my neck, "Does he… uh, get violent?"

You shrugged and looked at the chords on your guitar while saying, "I don't usually stick around for the drama, so I just… walk out and sit down right here, with this thing" you motioned towards your guitar. "And if they're especially loud, I play a few strings to calm myself down."

"Yet, you were more than ready to chuck it at some unknown burglar earlier this evening. Really says how much you care about it." I said with a ghost of a smile.

A small dimple appeared on your left cheek that left me somewhat curled up inside my head. "Well," you said, "You're the one who dropped out of the tree Peter. You tell me what was I supposed to do if not throw it at you?"

That moment or whatever it was that I was having with you, had my mind wrapped up in a blanket of the present and nothing else existed out of it. We talked a brief while longer, mostly about mundane things and things that could be really considered meaningless noise to anyone older or alien to who we were and where we were from. It surprised me how much we knew each other, albeit momentarily but it lasted so long in my mind that really, it could have been hours, when in fact it was only a few minutes. Worries that had been plaguing my mind for weeks by then, came unraveled while we talked, you laughed when I told you about my detention, "You deserve it!" you said with no hint of a smile, "Sneaking around at night like this! Jumping out of your bedroom window! What if I told your Aunt huh?"

"You won't tell her though right," I asked when I wasn't sure if you were being sarcastic enough to warrant trust. "I won't," you said, "and you won't either?".

"No," I said with infinite conviction.

What I'm really trying to convey here in case it's not already clear, was that you heard me. And when I say you heard me, I mean you listened to what I said. That's all you really did. And maybe I did the same for you but that's the catch with people like us. We're so ready to be under the world and hold it up at the same time that no one looks down and says "Hey! How you doing? Need some help?". No, no one did that for me. All I hear when I sleep, are the cries of help and the structures collapsing around me and a sickening guilt that I'll never be there to save the guy who was going to be found the next day lying in a ditch somewhere or the unlucky teenager who'll be lying in an alley-way having overdosed himself on the latest street drug. I'll never be everywhere at once but maybe being somewhere was good enough.

It took me a long time, but I did eventually check the incessant vibration that had been playing against my thigh. "Fire at Columbia" the notification read on my phone screen. I suddenly remembered where I was and where I had to go. It pained me horribly that night to abruptly make my getaway when you were so alone in that lawn while your parents fought on. Maybe you sang that night, I don't remember because I never made it home until the sun had risen, at which point you were nowhere to be seen from my window. But whatever it was, I knew that I abandoned you when you were somewhat glad to have someone to talk to. And I realized that eventually, but that wasn't until much later. But the thought of you spending your night outside with nowhere to go and no one to talk to except for that acoustic guitar you carried around with you, always made me feel unbearably sad for many years to come.

The day of the Farewell Ceremony arrived faster than any of us imagined. With so much preparation being piled onto it, most of the others lost track of how fluidly time slips away when stress was the only thing you knew. I was no stranger to it, but even by my standards, the date of the party arrived sooner than expected. The ceremony itself turned out to be a crazy affair, the parents showed up by four in the evening, just as the card said, but they were mostly confined to the auditorium where the main function would unveil and Aunt May had come too, dressed appropriately and in bright colors for the situation. An hour ago, she'd been ruffling through Uncle Ben's old clothes and had brought out a brown suit with a bowtie and said, "You're gonna wear this. It goes with your eyes" and I couldn't protest.

Meanwhile, all the students had been restricted to the gymnasium, which led me and many others to believe that this party was really a recreation of our proms, which was something I hadn't really enjoyed owing to the fact that I'd been all alone seated in one of the seats above sipping away at an awful orange juice while everyone else twirled on the floor below.

The seniors had been grouped with us and only when the function would unveil an hour and a half later would they be taken to the auditorium along with the rest. They were the primary audience of the show after all. So for the first hour, Harry and I mingled with people we really couldn't care less about but we had to keep the pretense up, so no excuses were made. There were soft punches being handed out at the event and I shrugged at Harry as I took the glass from a nearby serving waiter and immediately regretted it as I eyed the sloshy pink liquid which was making me nauseous with the smell it emitted. "Is this strawberry?" I asked Harry, who simply said "Cheers!" as he clinked his glass to mine before drowning the entire thing down and letting a burp out which made the nearby girls eye him with disgust. "Not half bad," he said winking at me at which point I thought to hell with it and drowned mine as well. It was pungent and really something fiery as it went down my throat. I realized that Sally Monroe hadn't been kidding when she'd said that Flash was gonna smuggle booze in. The punches must have been spiked with alcohol. I had learned early on after the spider-bite that my metabolism keeps me resistant to different forms of alcohol but I had never consumed anything like what was in those drinks that night, I felt like a hole was being bored into my stomach.

So for a while, I walked around the gym floor a bit unsure-footed while the girls giggled and the guys flirted around, and somewhere at the back end of the room, next to the double-door entrance, I noticed you. You were standing against a wall, smiling at the people who passed by you and strangely enough, I saw Gwen Stacy beside you. It seemed to me from the other side in the room, that the quiet and timid Gwen Stacy, with her blonde bangs covering the sides of her face and whose glasses were still with me by the way, had found someone to talk to and who better than you. You were like a refuge for outcasts, first me and now Gwen, and perhaps you yourself were one too but I seriously doubted that considering the slew of girlfriends that surrounded you. And the even larger contingent of boys who had you against the wall and yet you had the courtesy of giving them all a smile which probably warmed their heart till they fell asleep that night. Also, you were wearing this unfairly low-cut black dress which was stunning from whatever angle I saw.

I wish I had said something to you there, but I never did. Maybe I was a coward and yes, I was _really_ much too afraid. I'd never done this before and I'd never given it much thought, and I never had time to, but the truth was… I was just afraid. And besides, the kind of people who hung around with you, always left me wondering if they really were your friends or merely surrounding you as a means of capturing a prize? I mean, you were never seen with anyone outside of the obnoxious and highly-entitled group of sassy teenagers who push people around for their own little agenda; Flash was one of them. I knew what people said about you back then, the whispers and rumors that revolved around the pretty girl in class who everyone had a thing for, but really, I didn't give a damn. I couldn't be bothered to.

To me, you were the next-door girl with a crush on acoustic guitars and a penchant for slow songs. There was something picturesque about that in my head and even in class when I'd steal glances at you, I kept imagining how of all the people in Midtown, _I_ was the one who knew you best. Except, I never did anything about it. And I never did talk to you in that entire party.

An hour later, we sat in the auditorium with the parents as the function began. There were names and awards and certificates and talks and even longer talks to bear, and bear we did. I spent most of the time chatting away with Harry in the darkness while May sat somewhere at the back with the rest of the parents. I had no idea where you were, but my mind did occasionally flit in your direction and I wondered if I could find out where you were and sit close to you. Proximity was what I wanted but fear overwhelmed my need for overriding the muddled feelings I kept having in my head. I was confused and the alcohol from before hadn't died out yet.

Now imagine my surprise, when the next thing I remember was seeing you walk onto the stage, the spotlight centered on your figure. I was stupefied with the entrance and I wondered what you might be doing up there until I saw the guitar in your hand and realized with a sense of awe that you were going to perform. You sat down on a chair and with the strings firmly practiced in your fingers, you began a slow acoustic jumble and started singing….

The night was pallid and clear of disturbances when I walked back home. Aunt May had left right after the show ended, but I stayed back for the final moments of the dying party. Harry stuck around too and he passed around the trashy whiskey flask he carried with him on certain occasions like that night. He offered me a swig and I declined; immune or not I didn't want to go home reeking of alcohol. There were numerous pats being showered in every direction, Mr. Kramer even proceeded to make a toast to all of us. I left an hour into the proceedings. With my brown suit under my arm and slightly wobbly in the knees out of tiredness, I slowly made my way home. I enjoyed walking. With most days being a hurried mess, I sometimes liked to slow everything to a crawl. The alcohol still burnt in my stomach though with a lesser intensity now that the breeze tugged at my skin. There were strange thoughts that occurred to me in that walk, thoughts that revolve in forgetful dreams but leave an imprint nonetheless. But mostly, I thought of you, and the really heartfelt tune you had just sung. I began humming it as I walked on.

When I reached home, there was someone seated on the steps of the neighboring house with a pose so familiar that I could have guessed from a mile that it was you. The guitar rested against your leg as you looked towards your house with a painful expression. The quarrel inside, was louder that night and the bickering, much harsher. As I walked closer you focused your gaze on me and I realized, there were tears brimming in them. You quickly brushed them off with your hand and said, "Hey" in a voice so shaky that I was sure you had been crying before I'd walked in on you.

"Your parents fighting again?" I asked.

"Yeah"

"We have to stop meeting like this," I said with an attempt at a smile. "We keep running into each other at the worst possible times, don't you think?"

"Yeah," you said with a minor smile while quickly wiping another tear as the harsh voices carried with the wind.

We were alone again and suddenly the fear that kept me away from you in the middle of the party brought me up the steps and closer to you. I sat down beside you while placing my suit on my lap. "You know," I said, "I think I got proper drunk for the first time tonight"

"Really?" you asked and sniffed my breath, "Yeah I think you did. Was it the punch that you mentioned before?"

"Yeah, I still have no idea what Flash mixed in it though. Thing burned like hell."

"Flash doped the drinks?" you asked surprised.

"Yeah but good thing I can't-…. Uh never mind" I finished hastily.

"Good thing you can't what?"

"It's nothing." I replied, "What was that song you sang back there? Inside the auditorium?"

"You really don't know?"

"I don't think anyone knew. I don't think anyone hears country anymore. That was… country you sang right?"

"Of course. But what on earth are people gonna hear if not country?" you demanded, your red hair flapping against your shoulders.

"I dunno… Pop's pretty wild these days… Mostly vibe music's doing well right now. Plus there's a bunch of new electronic artists trying weird experimental stuff. People are really into that stuff" I said.

"So no one's listening to country you're saying?"

"Well tonight they did and they went home mesmerized, I'm sure" I grinned.

"Yeah right, I seriously doubt that. I lost my nerve midway through the chorus and then for the next section I missed a few words in the lyrics and used the wrong chords on the last section, and it should have been a higher pitch on-…"

"I'm sure no one noticed" I interrupted seeing your head beginning to go red. "Heck I didn't and I was listening pretty damn hard"

"You didn't listen well enough." You said with a tremble of your head so slight that it almost escaped my notice. Inside your mom and dad shouted some more and the words entered my ears and stayed there for a long while in the dark. There were sounds of doors being banged and pans being thrown to the floor, it was a pretty bad fight in my opinion. I looked at you and recognized the expression of hurt and pain that clutched your features. Your eyes were screwed shut so tightly that I wondered if maybe you wanted to be done with it all and if you wanted to run away as far away as you could.

"MJ," I said gently. "What're they fighting about? It sounds really bad."

You took a deep and shaky breath before answering, "My dad… He's been having an affair."

"Jesus," I swore, unable to think of anything to say after that.

It was a full moon and as we sat on the steps of your house, the front porch bathed in its light, I began looking up at the night sky, to try and spot any of the familiar stars I usually see from my roof. Stargazing was an amazing past-time and usually on days where I wouldn't be able to sleep owing to the nightmares or the police sirens that moved around the city, I would generally slide open my bedroom window and tiptoe my way onto our tiled rooftop and sleep there under them and forget for a brief moment all the worries of the world that naturally kept me wide awake.

"They're gone tonight" I mumbled to myself when I couldn't spot any of the twinkling ones that I recognized from memory and just months of observation.

"What?"

"The stars," I said, "Can you see them?"

"Not really"

"Yeah," I chuckled. "Me neither. The city is too bright for the stars to hang about."

You smiled, "You're such a space-freak."

"Trust me, there's enough space out there to swallow us whole," I said severely. "And besides you're the freak with the guitar."

"Oh, so I'm the freak? Not Peter-freakin'-Parker who drops out of trees?"

"Alright," I conceded. "We're both freaks then. Of a different kind."

"So which one's worse?"

"Why does there have to be a worse?"

"Just tell me," you said. The voices grew louder behind us but we didn't mind. Not in the slightest bit, not for the moment.

"I'd say it's you. A freak with a guitar is the worst kind."

"Ohhh", you intoned, the dimple on your cheek resurfacing. "So that's how we're playing it are we?"

"That is indeed, how we're gonna play it" I answered.

You bumped me with your shoulder, and I laughed, albeit as quietly as I could for it was still quite late in the night. But then we sat there, on the porch, as still as mannequins and occasionally we'd say something to break the silence. The wind picked up as the minutes passed by and then I remembered something, something I had to say.

"You know MJ, the thing I was talking about before? About the stars?" I asked.

"Yeah?"

"About how we can't see them tonight?"

"Because of the city lights?" you asked. "Because it's too bright in New York so they've all run away?"

"Yeah"

"They'll be back," I said finally, as the streetlights flickered in the streets outside our homes and we sat there like statues till the moon disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER-2**

A week had passed since the farewell party of 2013. The high octane energy that had permeated the halls of Midtown just a week ago had fizzled out quite shamefully. I suppose in reality, occasions of 'going out with a bang' are extremely rare and few. However, there were still physical signs around the school which suggested that the night of merriment had not been a part of our imagination, such as three balloons which were floating helplessly along the gymnasium floors or the half-torn banner sheets that were lying in the cafeteria. On the morning following the party, a few disheartened seniors eyed the busy five-man janitorial staff who were hard at work clearing away the vestiges of the celebratory mess of the party. Disillusioned as they were, it was somewhat surprising that none of them tried any final day pranks, a tradition that had been upheld quite gloriously by the previous batches. I believe the year I joined Midtown someone blocked all the bathroom toilets in the second floor which led to the flooding of the corridors and Principal Ellis was forced to cut the day short when the stench started to spread. Maybe it was Ellis's new strict regulations banning such outrageous pranks that stopped the batch of 2013 from performing any of their own. Well, all except Steve Herbert, a senior whom I had once known owing to our interactions in the decathlon team some years ago, who didn't want to go out quietly. So on a Wednesday afternoon, he stole his badge of merit from the trophy cabinet, an act that earned him detention till the last day of term. Amusing as that was, even a few of my own classmates seemed upset, an emotion that confused me but at the time I merely associated that overt display of sadness to the upcoming term exams.

To be truthful, I didn't really understand sentimentality all that much. As far as I could see, there wasn't much about school that seemed special to me. I mean yes, I had Harry, and maybe some of the other people weren't bad either but for the most part I spent most of my school life inside locker rooms or cornered by thuggish students who found my lunch money an easy access for their own extra-curricular activities or suffering double wedgies at the hands of Flash Thompson – memories that I'm not particularly fond of.

I clearly remember my first day at Midtown high. Uncle Ben had received a call from the school principal sometime in the evening. The tale as recounted to him in Miss Ellis's office later was Mr Riley, the school janitor at the time, having done for the day had stepped into the broom closet to drop his equipment off when he saw a really pale-looking boy sitting quietly in the closet clutching a shattered pair of glasses in his hand. It didn't take the janitor long to realize what had happened, but it did take him ten minutes to figure out who to call. Ben didn't say a word on the way home, which usually signified how angry he was but that night he seemed defeated. "I'll buy you a new pair" he had said pointing at my broken frame.

"And don't tell your Aunt. She'll just worry" was what he said when I got out on the driveway, and I had no reason to disobey.

But I'm deviating from the topic at hand and there is no point going over the regretful moments in life because usually they just end up making me feel miserable.

Coming back to more pressing events, a few days after the party, Manhattan PD had released a statement to the public. An elusive serial arsonist who had been plaguing New York for the past month had finally been apprehended. When asked by numerous reporters the police captain commented that the details were classified, which really begged the question if it was the police who caught him or if they found him unconscious outside the doors of their humble establishment hanging from a lamp post with a little card stuck to his head. I for one cannot tell you what was written on that card, mostly because I don't remember it except for the fact that the officer who read it, happened to put on the most glorious grimace I have ever had the pleasure to observe in my short life.

Thankful as I was with the period of respite that followed and with the lack of extra-curricular 'busy-ness' that wearing a mask entails, I did not feel satisfied. I don't think I'm wrong in saying that satisfaction is the most fleeting of emotions. I wonder sometimes if anyone gets used to it; my inner intuition tells me that you don't but then again it would be nice to feel happy when a job is well done.

To explain the troubles associated with my feeling of discontentment, it is perhaps best if I begin by telling you what happened on the first day of my senior year lab exams. Perhaps you remember, I am not entirely sure if you do but it is safe to assume that you remember a little of the events that transpired because after all most of it involved you.

I have no intention to boast but I believe as the exam went, I was the first person to leave the chemistry lab after having successfully completed it, which to be fair wasn't challenging but I did find Flash Thompson in the corner giving me the stink eye which in turn put me in higher spirits. It must have been while I was walking down the first floor hallway where all the staff rooms happened to be located when I saw you walk out of the blue tinted door which everyone knew to be the school counselor's office. Miss Pennings, the substitute English teacher and also the official student counselor, held the door open for you as for a brief moment you glanced at me. A hint of bewilderment lightly touched your face. I believe the expression deer in a headlight summarized your countenance quite aptly. You might have gasped my name but I simply put on a hesitant smile and took my leave, quickening my stride as though the Rhino was charging down the corridor.

Now you might wonder why I might have acted so bizarrely. I mean surely I should have been curious enough to ask you what you might have been doing in the counselor's office. But the truth was I already knew and well, it scared me.

See, a day before the exam, in a moment of idle conversation on the dinner table Aunt May told me during dinner-time the next-door neighbors - the Watson's - were getting divorced. Apparently, it was Mrs Glasgow, our other neighbors, who had dropped this piece of information onto May during her latest visit to the supermarket. "How sad and irresponsible of them considering they have a daughter of your age. Do you know her well?" I must have been sipping on a glass of milk when she had divulged that particular information which led to a choking fit on my behalf, milk is surprisingly thick, and May eventually had to take away the glass from my hand hurriedly. "The Watson's are what?" I must have asked to which she just shook her head.

Needless to say, seeing you outside the counselor's office was enough to make me mull over May's words and the possible truth hidden in them. But even as I walked away, there was this trickling feeling of shame that permeated my head. A shame born out of the simple conclusion that I had run away from you when you were in dire need to have someone to talk to.

So days passed as I watched you in Calculus and English, the only two classes we shared, and also from my bedroom window as you sat out in the lawn in those same pyjamas with the moon high above the clouds. I tried on multiple occasions to contact you; I mean surely there was a way to make you feel better. But again, there never seemed an opportune time when you were alone and in a somewhat somber state to have a real conversation. Incidentally, this was also the time I got most used to hearing you sing from your backyard, your voice would often float into my room along with a light strumming of guitar. In the distance I knew I heard the constant shouting of your parents; their fights worsening over the days but hey, it could only get worse before it got better.

Oh and I suppose it is worth mentioning that I don't really listen to that many songs but seriously, you made me look up "Give me something" by Seafret on a particularly lonesome night when Aunt May was out on her night shift and her laptop was lying on the living room table. It's just the way you were singing it that night that made me realize something and I don't generally have these moments but you know what, it made me feel somewhat heartbroken.

But again, I'm digressing so I'll just do everyone a favor and get back on track here. After a significant amount of down-time was wasted on my behalf, I eventually decided that perhaps recess was the time I should try to talk to you; all I had to do was find a table and motion you over. I mean that sounded like a pretty good strategy, one I was certain would work until I realized that applying it practically was another thing in and of itself. It was one of those plans that work much better in your head. What made it even more difficult was the fact that you traveled in a group. There was always this gaggle of girls that accompanied you everywhere, and I mean _everywhere. _What you and Liz Allan had to talk about for hours on end on your way to the football field simply confounded me, and it happened so frequently that even Harry caught me rolling my eyes the tenth time it happened as we sat under the rafters. "Maybe just go over and talk to her like a normal human being. Either that or you really don't like peanut butter sandwich," he said.

"It's not that easy".

"Sure it is," he smirked as he took the sandwich from me and bit into it, "Mm. That is so good!"

As term exams got into their flow, I began to feel somewhat agitated. Two weeks had gone by and my attempts at making contact with you had reached nowhere. Seeing as how you were seemingly unavailable to corner in school premises I decided that maybe it was time I tried for the ground zero approach, which was a simple concept involving minimal fuss and no planning at all – I would talk to you the same way I talked with you the first time, outside your home. Frankly, it may seem foolhardy of me to mention it now seeing as how it should have been my first method of establishing contact instead of trying it in school, where you were constantly preoccupied with the more 'popular' kids. But the reason I didn't try it in the first place was because of the simple fact that I imagined the two of us had now reached a level of acquaintanceship that we could talk easily. But I realize now that I was deluding myself; I mean clearly, you had already forgotten our little rendezvous on the front-door steps of your home.

Trust me I wasn't hurt; merely disappointed.

So as you can see, the reason for this feeling of dissatisfaction, the one I mentioned not so very long ago rose from my inability to solve certain problems, and those said problems were inextricably linked with you. But of course, I was aware by that point that my time was running out and the longer I spent thinking about how to approach you, the less time I had to actually do it. Also it is worth pointing out that an entire month had passed since the farewell party of 2013, we were now into April which meant that a significant amount of time had passed since our initial conversation back in March and the longer I waited the harder it would become to interact with you. It was a conundrum that certainly warranted a need for action.

And so it was that on a Monday morning, an hour before the commencement of my Biology test I ran into you in the school library. First let me just say that of all the places one wishes to run into people, the library is certainly one that doesn't rank high on anyone's list. Perhaps the reason may seem bloated to you but for me the library was not a place where I liked to have my heartbeat quadrupled, which is exactly what happened when I saw you peeking through the opposite side of a rack where I had been busy searching for an extensive volume on Fossil recovery and Evolution of Invertebrates. I shall admit that I may or may not have jerked back violently when I pulled out a book from the rack and saw your very green eyes peering at me.

"I thought I recognized someone," you said to me.

"He-He-Hey!"

"Hey stranger" you smiled.

"What are you," I took a long breath "doing here?"

"Last minute preparations," you said while pulling out a number of books from the shelves onto your arms. "Believe it or not, I have an hour to make sure I don't fail my economics paper."

"Ah."

"You wouldn't happen to know where I might find books on Market structures would you."

"Uhm," I lightly cupped my chin, "I kinda remember seeing something back by that yellow wall over there, yeah that's the one. You could possibly try there. Oh and inside note - stay clear of those brown shelves," I point to her "Mrs. Price is terribly possessive of the books in those shelves."

"Why? What does she keep there?"

"Actually," I turned my gaze from her to the brown shelves and back to her again. "I have no idea.

"I never really checked it out myself. Mostly because all the books I ever need are in the corner shelves over there, far from her brown shelves" I said.

"Oh"

"Just stay clear of it and you're fine"

"Thanks for the tip," you wink. "You're a lifesaver, Peter. Talk to you later!"

For a brief moment I was caught in what seemed like a murky dream where I was uncertain of what my purpose was. It was only when you were about to turn into the corridor thus disappearing from view that I must have shouted "Wait! Mary Jane!" which in turn led to numerous shushes from the nearby students.

"Yeah?"

"There was something else. Something I needed to ask you"

"Shoot," you said turning to face me.

As I stood there and looked back at your questioning stare I realized that this was finally the moment where I could rid myself of the discontentment that had been building inside me. How many days must I have spent by then imagining how I would ask you how you were and if you were alright and whether the news about your parents splitting was actually true? All of those questions burned at the tip of my tongue and yet as I looked at you and remembered how surprised you looked when I saw you outside the counselor's office a few weeks ago I said, "You know what, I just forgot what the question was…"

"Oh," you said. "Was it something important?"

"Wouldn't have forgotten it if it was," I said rubbing my neck.

You chuckled quietly, covering your mouth with the back of one hand "You crack me up, Peter Parker.

"I'll see you around" you said as you walked away.

Even to this day, I am still confused about what stopped me from asking you the question. It wasn't like I was trying to ask you a difficult question but it was a personal one, which may have perchance made me hesitate at the last moment. However, it is slightly irksome now to look back at the times over the years when I have felt dissatisfied with the order of certain things. Perhaps that is because the dissatisfaction I feel is not an easy emotion to get rid of; it is almost perpetual, it simply never left me alone. But as I think back on my high school days and how long I waited to simply talk to you I realize now that there were a lot of missed opportunities on my behalf.

But I try not to think back on the details of the memories because like I said, I just end up feeling miserable whenever I do.

* * *

The abundance of free time in my hands eventually ran out once the term exams got over. The summer holidays beckoned in an attempt to take me out of my low spirits but obviously it didn't work. School was closed for approximately two months which meant that I ended up spending most of my time in the Downtown Café, which had a sudden influx of customers. This increase wasn't really that large but it was enough that Mr Turner, the manager, had his staff working twice as hard over the vacations because it wasn't long before he realized that he was shorthanded to deal with this rise in customers. Often times he would pass by me in the back room muttering, "If you pull off one of your getaway's now Parker, I promise you, I will find you and kill you." Honestly, I didn't know what was more disturbing, the fact that I was now spending most hours of the day locked inside a coffee shop or that my manager was cracking under the strain of dealing with a packed house every day of the week. And there was no doubt in my mind that Mr Turner was cracking because after having announced ten times that he would kill me if I abandoned my post, he reverted to glaring at me from a distance almost as if I was the reason for increasing his customer rate.

But it was only later that I found out the reason for the increase in customers was surprisingly enough the Café's air conditioners. Apparently, a lot of residents around Queens at the time were facing erratic power outages in their homes and so in desperation, they had begun streaming into our coffee shop where the coffees were steaming hot but thankfully the air conditioners were pleasantly cold.

Talking about strain for a minute though, Mr Turner wasn't the only one suffering from it because Aunt May wasn't doing that well either. She was having a hard time at the hospital, especially because the summer heat was finally settling in bringing with it scorching temperatures well above ninety degrees. This of course resulted in a lot of people around Queens suffering heat strokes and painful sunburns, all of which inadvertently led to May dealing with an increase in patient numbers on her front.

In short, the summer of 2013 was a busy one for hospitals and a profitable one for coffee shops, give or take a decently functioning air conditioning unit.

Oh and how could I forget the extravaganza of the summer because believe it or not, it was also the time a street thug going by the handle 'The Shocker' had wreaked havoc on not one, not two, and not three either, but five federal banks in less than a week. I admit that at the time I heard of this I had a few reservations about his name but if anything was clear to me by the time the fifth robbery happened, it was a bad time to be working at a bank and a worse time indeed if you happened to be a security guard at that.

Now, busy as I was with my work at the Café and vigilant as Mr Turner was at keeping an eye on me, I did however find brief gaps in my shifts and lapses in his awareness when I could sneak off for at least twenty minutes at a time before anyone would notice. Those twenty minutes would often be ill-spent searching for the Shocker, a feat which was simply impossible given the lack of clues on his part, and by the time I would be back at the shop my costume would be so drenched that I would have to leave it out in the alley to make sure it didn't stink up the shop.

Funnily enough, I did run into the Shocker not so long after. It was on a cloudy Saturday, the first sunless day of the month, and perhaps it may seem a bit exaggerated to you but I kid you not when I say that we ran into each other near a public library; actually, I initially found him robbing another bank but a few violent circumstances ultimately led to us crashing into a peaceful library space. I find it difficult to remember the exact details of what transpired next but I most definitely recall being hurled into a row of bookshelves, an experience that earned me a great dislike for hardcovers, and I suppose the library may have ended up with two holes in two separate walls by the time we were done. Suffice it to say that the Shocker wasn't as welcoming to his first visit to the library like you were but yet again, who am I judge considering the holes were all my fault even though I was the one being punched through them.

The next time I showed up at the shop, Mr Turner glared at me as he said, "I left you in the backroom for ten minutes, so you better tell me that's blood coming out of your lips and not the ketchup I left on my cheeseburger back there."

"I slipped," I said as I forced a smile.

But apparently, it wasn't a good enough assurance for Mr Turner who pushed past me onto the backroom. I must have been wiping the blood from my face when he shouted, "You got away this time Peter. Now back to work! Chop-chop!"

I am tempted to say that the effort on my part was not in vain but the truth was, the Shocker eventually turned out to be a greater threat as not only did he continue his reign of terror on banks that had the misfortune of being located in and around Queens, but my fight with him had resulted in my Spiderman costume being torn beyond repair; at least to the best of my abilities. Capable though I was at certain things, sewing a piece of cloth back into wearable quality was not one of my hidden talents. Of course, that was no reason for me to give up and I didn't as I smuggled May's sewing kit to my bedroom one night and worked on it for hours, only to come to the inescapable conclusion that my suit now resembled a tablecloth. I shuddered in the dark that night as I dreamt I was fighting Shocker while being draped in a tablecloth. Eventually, you crept into the dream as your voice kept saying, "You crack me up Peter Parker. Spiderman doesn't wear a tablecloth!"

"But I am Spiderman!" I shouted over and over as the Shocker continued punching me into a mountain of hardbound books. In hindsight it was definitely one of the most terrifying dreams I've ever had.

Breakfast was a tight affair the next Sunday morning when May said "Peter, are we going to talk about that swollen cheek of yours?" which of course I immediately replied with, "Do we have to?" Unfortunately, that was not the kind of cheeky talk May approved of and certainly not from her nephew. Perhaps sometimes it got tough for me to keep my head straight under all the questioning that went on around the house because truthfully, there had been countless occasions in which I had shown up for dinner with parts of my face covered in blood. Now, given my track record in high schools it was of no surprise to me that whenever something bad happened May would often ask me "Tell me who beat you Peter," and she did that day as well.

"No one, it was my fault."

"Was it that Thompson kid Ben used to tell me about? Flash?"

"What? No! Didn't you hear me? It was my fault, I made a mistake, I-I fell."

"Seriously that's your excuse?"

"It's the truth!"

"Do you hear yourself right now?"

"I'm telling you the truth! Nothing happened. I just fell."

At that point, May sighed as got this really tired look on her face almost like she knew that there was no way in hell I was going to tell her what was really going on and you know for some reason, that made me feel really sad.

To be truthful, I probably should have handled it a lot better because fights with Aunt May were generally a one-way affair. Often they would end in stalemates or elaborately concocted lies that flew so far north that not only would it make me squeamish about lying in general but also make me internally question my creativity. I kid you not when I tell you that on one particular occasion May caught me out of bed at three a.m. on a school night. She quite literally screamed when she turned on the living room lights to see her nephew half naked as he was attempting to quietly sneak off to bed. In case you're wondering, the naked aspect of the story was because I had somehow managed to lose my casual clothes in an obscure alleyway, which I could not locate after my usual foray as Spiderman. I remember explaining to Aunt May in the calmest voice possible that I had been mugged, to which she said, "Then we gotta call the cops!" and I said, "Well, I mean is-is that the wisest decision? It was dark and I couldn't really see them and I mean they took everything, even my wallet. By now they possibly know who I am and where I live." May only looked more emboldened by that proclamation as she stood up to her full height and said, "I won't be intimidated by thugs! I'm calling the cops" after which one thing led to another and before I knew it, I was describing in terrifying detail how massive the thugs were and how they knew exactly where we live and how they had threatened me about calling the cops. If I have to surmise the entire ordeal, I would most definitely say that it was the most I'd lied on a single night.

I won't say that lying to her was especially hard because after a certain amount of time you get used to the deception. People adapt and so did I, but that was in no means to say that I was okay with being confronted by her and inadvertently spouting a bunch of made up stuff. Misleading Aunt May never felt right but such were the circumstances.

So naturally, when I arrived at the Café on Monday I wasn't feeling that great. There was a grogginess that clouded my senses as I walked through the door but I suppose that could have been the lack of sleep. Also, the ten cups of coffee consumed in the middle of the night weren't doing much either except for the light headache. Still it wasn't all that bad as I served my first round of customers. Sleep deprived as I was, I still had an enhanced metabolism and I was counting on it to kick in any moment and make me feel better. It's funny though because it never did and when Martin, the barista, poked me in the ribs and whispered, "Peter, quit falling asleep! You just passed a twenty to that girl _after _she paid her full amount! C'mon man, don't mess with the money," I made sure I didn't doze off again by poking my swollen cheek hard; pain is an excellent counter-agent to sleeping on the job. Unfortunately, things only got worse from there on. By the end of the day, I accidentally spilled four cups of hot coffee on a group of teenagers, mixed up an elderly gentleman's order for a ristretto with a latte and also got caught drinking a double espresso in the backroom by none other than Mr Turner himself.

"Having a good time Peter?" he asked me.

"Not really"

"Is it hot enough or should I make a fresh cup for you?" he said pointing at the cup in my hands with a rubbery smile.

"Uh-"

"It's alright. Go on drink it. Might as well finish one last coffee before you leave"

"I'm merely taking a break"

"You misunderstand me," he said as he stepped closer to me and slowly undid the Downtown Café apron from my back as I stood with a half-finished expresso in my hands.

"What is going on?" I asked.

"I've put up with a lot. Frankly, I'm surprised this didn't happen sooner but I really thought you were a good kid. And now, I guess this is it.

"Wai-Wait Mr Turner. Please don't do this."

"Your services will no longer be required," he said as he walked out of the room with my apron.

* * *

That night, I walked back home somewhat methodically. Perhaps it was a deliberate choice on my part when I took the longest route possible, which by the way turned out to be a period of deep contemplation. Midway through the journey, when the light headache had evolved quite magnificently into a migraine, I sat down on the curb and gawked miserably at the streetlight shining down on me. But even that moment of silence was interrupted quite abruptly when two fat drops of water fell on my face. The rain began pattering the streets just a minute later making me regret my earlier choice as I ran at top speed till I reached the front door.

"Happy Birthday Peter!"

It was a considerable surprise for me when I saw you and Aunt May standing in the living room, both with looks of bright joy while drops of water seeped down my clothes and onto the carpet. I believe the expression deer in a headlight summarized my situation quite aptly.

"Is this a prank?" I asked which made you giggle and prompted Aunt May to assure me that it wasn't. It really was my birthday. She smiled before retreating to the kitchen thus leaving me alone in the room with you at which point I realized that I had been quite ill-prepared for this interaction, and being completely drenched from head to foot I was not doing well on the 'look your best when in company of the opposite gender' aspect of things. Seeing as how I was at a disadvantage I tried explaining my predicament but instead ended up sneezing quite explosively all over the carpet.

"Got caught in the rain," I sniffled.

"Alright," you said simply, but the odd twist in your face and the veins popping under your neck made me realize that you were trying your best not to burst out laughing.

"Just thought you should know," I muttered before following Aunt May into the kitchen.

May was pulling plates out of the upper cabinet, rubbing them clean with a wet rag when I cornered her.

"She's here because I called her," was what she told me when I asked her what you were doing in our living room. "Also Harry wasn't answering his phone and there's no one else I know of who would come at such short notice."

"But-…"

"You're turning seventeen, kiddo. In a year you'll be out of this house so the least I could do was let you celebrate your birthday with someone other than myself.

"Now go on! Go talk to her!"

I groaned, "It's not that easy."

"Because she's a girl?"

"That's mean," I said narrowing my eyes.

"Sure it is," she said. "Say, why don't you take her upstairs while I get the cake ready?"

It was with a great degree of reluctance that I heeded her advice, though only after I'd changed out of my wet clothes. I was pensive to say the least when you walked around my room picking up odd objects that I did not have the chance to clear away before you had entered. There was a moment when you picked up one of my web shooters, which I'd managed to drop under the far side of my bed the other night, and said "Cool wrist-band." Thankfully, you didn't quite figure out the true purpose of its strange design even though you did keep staring at it for an inordinate amount of time.

Eventually, I interrupted your long suspicious look with an invitation to come with me to the roof. I half-expected you to decline because it was a somewhat slippery climb owing to the recent rainfall. But in the end I had to pull you up quite precariously.

"This is nice," you said sitting under the cover of the eaves while drops of rain gently fell to the ground.

Under the influence of the rain, everything had taken on an ethereal quality. The streets looked clean, the trees looked young and the night felt pleasantly cool and comforting.

"Do you come here often?" you asked.

"Only if I can't sleep. Or I need to think. And today is the perfect day for it," I sighed.

"Bad day?"

"Oh yes."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Nope."

You nodded and curled up your legs carefully on the slanted roof.

"I'm kinda having a bad day myself"

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Well, they sent our scores in yesterday right?"

"Right"

"I didn't do so good."

"What'd you mess up? Economics?"

"Nope, Calculus. And obviously, my mom is making a big deal about it but the thing is I'm worried too because I'm trying for NYU next year and I don't exactly have time on my side."

"Hmm," I intoned feeling the gentle wind whip across my face. As I sat silently beside you, I realized that after everything that had happened back in the library and how I had hesitated that day, I would have to be mad to pass up another opportunity.

"Don't take this the wrong way but I think I can help if it's Calculus. It's one of the few things I'm good at."

You looked surprised at the offer, "But what about you? Aren't you busy?"

"Nah not really" I said. "Trust me, I'll help you."

Oddly enough, I felt quite at ease sitting on the roof with our back against the wall and the eaves sheltering our heads. Perhaps it was the calmness of the situation that helped me feel less temperamental than usual.

"Oh I almost forgot," you said handing me a box the size of a shoebox wrapped in crème paper. "Happy Birthday."

"Hey c'mon, you didn't have to."

"It's not really a proper gift. I just picked up something from my table on the way out. I didn't really have a chance to buy something. But yeah, I wanted you to have this."

"What is it?"

"It's a… polaroid camera. My mom bought it for me out of a thrift store when I was nine. She thought I would bond with it because apparently, I spent a good amount of my childhood dressing up as famous people and then I'd keep bothering her to take pictures of me. But that was all before the guitar happened."

"Wow… you weren't modest at all were you?"

"I was _nine _and shut up"

"Should I open it?" I asked but when you said there was no hurry I simply tucked it into my trouser pocket.

"I'm sorry if it's a weird gift."

"It's not."

"You're smiling," you said looking discomfited. "You think it's silly, don't you. I should have just bought you something more normal."

"Hey, I don't think it's silly."

"Then why are you smiling?"

"I don't know," I said looking at you. "But this is nice."

You know thinking back for a moment, there is not a lot I remember about school or my early teenage years because if truth be told they weren't that great for me. In fact, that was the point where things got really difficult. But yes, the seventeenth birthday when I got fired from my job and ended the night on the roof with you, I remember that quite vividly even though it wasn't the best of times because despite the ups and downs of my life, I've learned to embrace the parts that really mattered and that night most definitely did.


End file.
